Five
by staphylococci
Summary: James Wilson could count on one hand the times he'd seen Gregory House throw his head back and laugh with a sort of reckless abandon usually only seen in prepubescent teenagers. He remembered each date, each memory as if it were the flashbulb of a camera; remembered with obnoxious clarity the shock he felt when his best friend, of all people, broke into hysterics.
1. Monday, May 31, 1993

A/N: The dates will be the death of me on this one – after some research, I have discovered that Wilson and House are 10 years apart. HouseWiki says Wilson and House met in '91 at the conference, but that would make Wilson 23 at the time, which makes 0 sense because he evidently _graduated medical school _at about the same time most undergrads finish their bachelor's. So ignore the ages and the dates for the most part; assume they met in '91 and Wilson was an acceptable age to be married, divorced, and a med school graduate. This also screws up the dates as to when Wilson became head of oncology and House was hired, etc, etc; please just ignore it all for me

This concept started off as a first chapter to a story I'm planning on writing titled _Six_, about the sixth time that Wilson witnesses House truly laugh, though that one doesn't have a happy outcome. I wanted to elaborate, thus: this. Some of the chapters may be short, some may be long… depends on the memory. Enjoy!

Note: Riverside Park is present-day Six Flags New England.

* * *

_Monday, May 31, 1993_

"You've _never _been on a rollercoaster," Wilson said monotonously, raising a single eyebrow in disbelief at House. It was Memorial Day, it was Massachusetts, it was Cape traffic backed all the way up to the Mass Pike, and it was humid. So humid, in fact, that House was hanging out the passenger-side backseat window, his tongue lolling as if he were a disgruntled schnauzer.

"Nope," House yelled across the turnpike. An old couple in the car next to them looked over, unamused. He began to moo. Stacy turned back from her place in the passenger seat, sending a death glare his way. House shrugged. "They're sending us to the slaughterhouse, you know," he said. Stacy rolled her eyes and cast a look at Bonnie, Wilson's second wife, who simply laughed as she changed lanes.

"They don't even sell burgers here," she said. "I think we're safe."

The men had known each other for almost a year and were still learning new things about each other, though House never failed to surprise him. A rollercoaster, as far as Wilson was concerned, was something everyone had experienced by the time they were twenty-five, let alone thirty-three.

"I thought you lived here," House called to Bonnie, his head still out the window. Now a family of four had their eyes on him, probably under the impression he had some sort of mental illness or retardation. Without thinking, he screwed up his face and stuck his tongue out.

"I did my undergrad at UMass," Bonnie responded.

"So why are we still on the turnpike?" he called back. "We should've gotten off at the last exit."

Silence. Then: anger.

"You _knew _how to get here?" Wilson asked incredulously. "You _knew _we missed the exit and you didn't say anything?"

Stacy's voice clipped the end of Wilson's statement, their voices overlapping in an ugly clash of tone. "We've been sitting in this traffic for an _hour_, Greg!" Stacy howled, dumping her head into her hands.

"Jesus, James," Bonnie growled over Stacy's voice, turning back to glare at her husband for a brief moment. "Give me a break, will you? It's been a few years since I frequented Western Massachusetts, alright?"

"Get off here," House instructed, pointing to a sign that said _Route 20. _"We'll take the back roads."

"How do you know the _back roads?_" Stacy demanded.

House shrugged. "It must be my animal instincts," he ruminated, and mooed again.

Bonnie did as she was told, and shaved another hour off their ride by doing so. The traffic was almost as thick as the air, and they'd been in the car for at least three hours. Memories of the open beach and rolling waves of their vacation were almost tangible in the confines of Wilson's '89 Volkswagen Jetta as they headed inland.

When they arrived at Riverside Park, House leapt from the car as if he'd been kidnapped, running in circles for a few moments and shaking his legs out. "Next time we're going to be trapped in a nonmoving vehicle for that long, sedate me," he said, jogging by Wilson.

They entered the gates of the park and newfound aggravation settled over the group, as Memorial Day weekend obviously hadn't been the best choice of times to attend an amusement park, let alone the entire state of Massachusetts. Stacy and Bonnie, though, still seemed excited, and tugged at the hands of their partners as they walked toward the largest rollercoaster in sight, titled _Black Widow. _

Wilson turned to House, expecting to see a look of disdain that mirrored his own. Instead, he saw something akin to a small child setting out cookies on Christmas Eve. Wilson searched for the word

Wonder.

"Hey," Wilson said, expecting to jar House from his reverie. Instead, House turned to face him, the mixture of fear and awe still plastered across his Caribbean Sea eyes.

"This thing's massive," House said quietly, giving the ride a quick up-down. He turned back to Wilson. "How on earth is this architecturally sound?"

Wilson laughed as if it were a rhetorical question.

It wasn't.

He tried to mask his cackle with a violent cough. "I… usually leave that up to the experts," Wilson responded carefully, trying not to be too insensitive to his friend's obvious fear. "You know… leave the engineering to the engineers, the doctoring to the doctors."

"I took an oath to do no harm. This is practically asking for suicide."

Wilson raised an eyebrow and looked toward the ladies for help. They were at the point of no return – their conversation had entered the land of preferred moisturizers and makeup brands. He sighed heavily and clapped House on the back a couple of times. "I spent almost the entirety of my summers on the Zipper. If I can survive that, you can survive this expertly designed amusement park ride." House's face was blank. Wilson paused. "You don't know what the _Zipper _is? It's when they lock you into a cage and it rolls around on a vertical conveyor belt and flips you around." House looked terrified. Wilson nodded. "_That _is asking for suicide. They should make you sign a waiver before you get on that thing."

House stared absently at Wilson. "And this is your way of trying to convince me to get on _that_." He stabbed the air above him, pointing to the towering death machine above him.

They were next in line. House wavered, stepping back as the ride attendant urged them forward.

"House," Wilson called sternly over his shoulder, "_don't be a pussy!_"

The older man considered this, and then smiled and followed them into the car.

The car was fairly small, with only four seats: two up front and two in the back. Wilson and Bonnie took the front, and House settled in the seat behind Wilson, Stacy at his side. "Are you okay?" she asked lowly, her voice serious. House nodded.

"What, do you think I'm a pussy?" he asked loudly. Wilson shook his head in dismay in front of them.

The lap bar came down and House grabbed the handles in horror as the ride jerked to a start, pulling them up a giant hill. Wilson made mundane conversation with Bonnie. House did not understand the normalcy of it all – was it not human nature to prepare for certain death when you put yourself in a highly unnatural situation?

When he blinked, he was at the top of the hill. A split second later, a murderous cry was ripping through the lighthearted air. They were accelerating, faster, faster, and the ridiculousness of it all struck House in one beautiful moment as they neared the next hill.

As they careened down that one, he laughed harder than he had in years, nearly breaking his neck as he tossed his chin into the air.

Wilson, mid-ride, cocked his head to one side and froze. His senses appeared to be in overdrive – he could smell the evergreen trees and hear the rush of the river off in the distance. Bonnie was screaming elatedly next to him, Stacy was giggling. But directly behind him, Gregory House was howling with laughter.

Wilson turned around, one eyebrow raised, as the ride careened over another hill. He met House's gaze and felt a smile creep onto his lips.

"This is fucking awesome!" House managed between cackles. And Wilson turned around and laughed, throwing his hands in the air as they descended back toward the earth.


	2. Friday, July 8, 1994

**A/N: **Again, please ignore the dates :).

Thanks for the lovely reviews, the follows, the favorites, et cetera. If you guys keep supporting, I will keep writing!

Fun fact - my grandfather saw Elton John in concert "back in the day", and he actually opened the concert in the way that he and Billy (fictionally) do here.

* * *

_Friday, July 8, 1994_

"Why did we think this was a good idea?"

Wilson raked a hand through his slicked-back hair, attempting to look calm, cool, collected, and belonging. They'd just entered a medical conference in Philadelphia clad in tight jeans, band tee shirts, and leather jackets. They looked wildly out of place – the only other person not in a suit or formal attire was the janitor – but were trying vicariously to dodge the perturbed glances of their colleagues. They were headed, after this, to Billy Joel and Elton John's _Face to Face _concert approximately twenty minutes away.

"Because we're geniuses," House said as if he were stating the obvious, and whipped his sunglasses off of his jacket pocket and slid them over his eyes. Indoors. "Come on. You can't tell me you honestly wanted to go to this thing," House reasoned as he settled into a chair in the banquet area. There was a bowl of cashews on the center of the table, and he shoved his hand into the bowl, cramming several into his mouth. "You know the age old saying," he said through a mouthful of nuts, "each time a doctor attends a medical convention, a litter of kittens meets their demise."

No response met his ridiculous comment, and he cocked his head to the side and pivoted in his seat, directing his attention toward the other side of the convention center. A smile split across his face as Wilson came into focus, two glasses of gin in his hands. He took steady strides in an attempt to not spill the beverages. "The first step in recovery is admitting you have a problem," House said, grinning, and accepted the drink.

Wilson settled in next to him, taking a generous sip before speaking. "Isn't this what 'pre-gaming' is?" he asked whimsically. He sighed contentedly and propped his feet up on the tablecloth, ignoring the fanciful table setting he was ruining and degrading by doing so. "Think we could've snuck a keg in here?" he wondered absently. He decided on draining the glass. "Want another?"

House stared at him with a crooked smile. "You _animal_," he accused. "What I wouldn't give to have partied with you during your undergrad." He shook his head and emptied his own glass easily, handing it back to Wilson.

Wilson returned to the table, an elderly gentleman hot on his tail. "Excuse me," the man said, tapping lightly on Wilson's shoulder as he set the drinks down. His nametag read _Dr. Pascal_. The oncologist's face lit up like a red light in embarrassment. "Where are you two gentlemen from?" he asked, agitation evident in his voice.

House didn't miss a beat. "My name is Dr. Cuddy," he said smoothly. "I believe in connecting with your inner self and balancing your chakras."

Wilson chortled and attempted to mask it with a violent cough, eventually needing to turn his back to the pair in order to hide his stupid grin.

The elder gentleman didn't seem entertained. "Dr. Cuddy is the Dean of Medicine at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital," he said wisely.

House nodded and stuck a hand out to shake. "Dr. Cuddy is pleased to meet Dr. Pascal. Does Dr. Pascal often speak in the third person?"

"She's also a woman."

"Sex change," House responded coolly, again not letting the conversation stall for even a split second too long. "I wrote my senior thesis on the evolutionary error that the second X chromosome presents in the human race. Foul creatures, women are." A genuine-looking grin was plastered on House's face. He turned to Wilson, whose entire fist was in his mouth.

"Suits are for pansies," House offered as a parting statement, and smiled happily in dismissal. Dr. Pascal, clearly confused, turned on his heel and stalked away, unsure of how to handle the two underdressed doctors with no regard for the medical convention they had signed up to attend.

The pair lingered another thirty minutes, consuming as much free alcohol as they could while evading the confused stares of other doctors, all dressed in their Sunday best. "I just love Sabbath!" House called to one guy, who continued to ogle at them. Wilson chuckled.

"Let's get out of here," House finally said, pushing himself back from the table. "I'm not missing a second of this show."

"I didn't realize you were such a huge fan of _The Lion King_."

"I have a shrine of Nathan Lane in my closet," House said simply. "And Billy Joel is my celebrity crush."

Wilson didn't ask.

They piled into House's 1975 Plymouth Duster, a car he argued would "someday be a classic." Wilson didn't understand why a _doctor_, of all people, would insist on driving a nearly 20-year-old car, but he had learned in his three years of friendship with House that some things were better left unasked, simply because the answer was always a smartass, sideways comment.

As they pulled into the Veterans Stadium parking lot, House began to fidget in the driver's seat, obviously anxious to get to their seats before he missed the opening number. "Whoa, cowboy," Wilson said, throwing his hands up as House parked the car and removed the keys. He practically threw himself from the vehicle and slammed the door behind him, breaking into a brisk jog through the parking lot.

Wilson followed as quickly as he could, extracting himself from the seatbelt and taking care to lock the doors before he followed his clearly inebriated friend.

"Elton John is a _legend!_" House called drunkenly over his shoulder, raising a defiant fist into the air Wilson chuckled and busted into a run, catching up to House just as they entered the stadium.

They maneuvered expertly to their seats which House christened as being "absurdly awesome," only five or six rows away from the massive stage. Deep in the shadows, they could make out the shapes of two massive grand pianos facing each other. There was a bit of movement before two spotlights came up on the empty piano benches.

Wilson shot a look over to House, whose eyebrows furrowed.

Then an ear-shattering chord filled the stadium, producing screams and applause from the crowd. Wilson looked back to House. He looked disappointed. Angry, even.

"This is _bullshit!_" House yelled to Wilson, motioning toward the empty stage before them. The harmony of two pianos still sang loud in the air, though presumably not from the unoccupied instruments in front of them. "We paid all this money, came all the way down here, attended that _stupid _convention for half an hour just to see some sound guy's fuck-up and a _recording _instead of a – "

The crowd burst into uproarious noise, people around them pointing, in awe, toward the stage. House mimicked them, and Wilson watched as his eyebrows shot up on his forehead, and a dumbfounded grin splattered across his face.

Wilson looked, and saw, at each piano, two pairs of hands banging on the keys. The benches were still empty – so how on earth…?

He followed the curvature of the wrists to _under _the piano, and realized with incredulity that the men were _underneath _the things, facing the benches, and playing backwards, blind, and upside-down. His own wonderment was broken by a deafening laugh from next to him, and he craned his head sideways and watched House, through the strobe lights, release sounds of delight into the air.

Wilson was dumbfounded. What the hell was so funny?

But when House turned to face him, Wilson saw an emotion that he'd never seen on his friend's face before – one of complete and utter amazement and respect. He continued to laugh, shouting a rhetorical question into the air before them. _Are they serious? _he'd said, and Wilson had shrugged his shoulders and chortled, felling his own body fill with warmth in response to House's cheer.

Then the sound of a harmonica split into the air, and Wilson was shoving his face into his hands as the pair of them bent over with hysteria, trying to not die of oxygen deprivation as Billy Joel performed the beautiful "Leave a Tender Moment Alone."


	3. Monday, April 20, 1998

Short update, but I think this is my favorite of the chapters.

* * *

_Monday, April 20, 1998_

They'd been running for four hours.

Wilson's foggy mind, weighed down by the incessant clomping of his sneakers against the street, was trying to make sense of the fact that they'd passed the 25th mile marker. Twenty-five miles, he thought absently. Twenty-five. One quarter of one hundred. Half of fifty. The square of five. A really shitty HDL level. A bun-to-creatinine ratio indicative of acute renal failure.

"Hey," came a voice from his right, but he had forgotten about it before he thought to respond. The sweat was puddling unforgivingly in the corners of his eyes, and had been since the 10k mark. His shins had been burning like Duraflame logs since Heartbreak Hill. They'd started in Hopkinton, and now they were in the Back Bay. He wanted a massage and a cheeseburger. Or a steak.

"James," came the voice again, concerned this time, halting his irrelevant train of thought. Wilson turned his head slightly and tried to control his embarrassingly labored breath. The concern was well-placed, he thought with a bit of a smile, considering he sounded like he'd been steam-rolled.

"I want a cheeseburger," Wilson blurted, unsure of what he had intended to say instead. House chuckled, wiping away a stream of sweat with the back of his hand. He looked like he'd run maybe a mile or two – not twenty-five – and was keeping pace a couple steps ahead of Wilson, who was beginning to fall behind as his body resorted to breaking down proteins, cluttering his brain with confusion and a desire to lay down on the pavement.

"Alright, James!" a spectator called, reading the lettering written on Wilson's tech shirt. They'd been doing it all morning, attempting to give him a surge of energy, as he was obviously struggling. Wilson, having not qualified for the marathon, had needed to apply to a charity and raise several thousand dollars. He had chosen Dana Farber, a major cancer institute in Boston that he often attended conferences at, and had been accepted. He began training immediately and had felt prepared, but the weather was hot and muggy and the roads were never ending. He was also running with House, who was apparently trying to kill the both of them.

House had qualified for Boston, having run the New York Marathon the previous year in a little over three hours. Despite this feat, he had still elected to run for the American Kidney Fund, paralleling his career as a nephrologist. Running made him generous, Wilson had realized. The endorphins, or the runner's high, or whatever, made him a genuinely happy person to be around. They'd had pleasant conversation throughout the race, though it was becoming increasingly difficult, as Wilson felt as if his body was shutting down.

"Right on Hereford," House called from next to him, quoting the age-old saying on t-shirts, bumper stickers, and posters across New England. He pointed toward the cross-street coming up. The runners were picking up pace, knowing the end was close. Wilson could hear the announcer at the finish line, nearly deafened by the screams of the spectators lining the streets as they ran.

They took the right wide and House stuck his left hand out for high fives, eating up the praise from the spectators as he did. They urged him on and called Wilson's name several times, telling him not to give up, that he was almost there, that the finish was around the next turn.

It seemed, to Wilson, to be a lot like telling a cancer patient to not give up, that there was a chance they'd survive, that the worst was almost over. He had to swallow down bile when he realized he did it every day.

"… and left on Boylston!" House finished, roaring with excitement. Wilson blinked, shocked to realize, upon opening his eyes, that House had completely abandoned him, plunging head-down toward the finish line.

"Shit, wait!" Wilson called, willing his legs to move faster. His vision was cloudy and blurred, and his heart was pounding so hard he was concerned it might rupture, or jump out of his chest, or perform some other medically impossible feat. Before he had instructed his brain to do so, he was sprinting, and people from the crowd were screaming his name, excited by his sudden burst of energy.

"House!" Wilson managed, lurching as far forward as he could. He was so close to his friend, a few feet at most, and the finish line was lingering. With strength Wilson didn't know he had, he pushed, pushed, pushed, and then, he was crossing the blue and yellow finish line, feeling detached from his body. Elation pumped though his arteries.

House was a few paces ahead of him, walking down the long lane of volunteers offering mylar blankets, Gatorade, and water bottles. Wilson grabbed a bagel and began cramming it down his throat unforgivingly. He looked for Bonnie in the massive crowds of spectators, and scanned for Cuddy, too, who was somewhere in a medical tent pushing fluids to dehydrated finishers.

His search was interrupted by uproarious laughter from somewhere in front of him. He squinted, looking for the source, eager to see what was so hysterical. His jaw dropped when he discovered the sound was coming from none other than Gregory House, standing still and cackling twenty feet in front of him. It had been years since he'd heard him laugh like that.

Wilson stumbled through the slowly moving crowd, rushing to House's side, who was still joyously littering the air with the sound of his happiness. "What are you laughing at?" he asked, hardly comprehensible through a mouthful of bagel. It humored him slightly that he sounded concerned, of all things, in reaction to House's bliss.

But House shook his head, laughing hysterically, letting himself marinate in a high better than any drug. He draped an arm around Wilson's shoulders and they walked, side by side, to Boston Common, finisher's medals hanging around their necks with pride, each man trying to breathe between spurts of hysterics that neither could explain.


	4. Saturday, December 23, 2000

_Saturday, December 23, 2000_

"Pass the lo mein," House ordered, holding out a palm across the couch. Wilson sighed and placed the carton in his outstretched hand. He hungrily plunged his chopsticks into a different carton, pulling out a chicken finger and taking a large bite.

"Don't eat all of that," he ordered, pointing a chopstick at the lo mein. "I'm not even close to finished with it."

"Fatass," House accused, and ate another large helping.

VH1 was on the television, some ridiculous music special playing quietly in the foreground. _Through the Decades_, it was called, and it prided itself on rambling about one-hit wonders and has-beens, only mentioning talented musicians a few times in the entire program. The Beatles had made a cameo, during which House had performed a fabulous cane-guitar rendition of George Harrison's beautiful ballad "Something." Wilson had supplied the Chinese-carton drum solo during The Who's "My Generation." It certainly wasn't Christmasy, but they were trying to avoid the season in its entirety, having both been dumped by their significant others in the past few months.

House had also lost the majority of his rectus femoris, but that conversation topic was to be avoided at all costs.

They were moping; that was true. It was undeniable, in fact. Cuddy had even proclaimed the pair to be "the most miserable couple since Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky." House had responded with, "At least Bill got to tap that."

The weekend of Christmas and they were eating take-out and watching crappy old music videos in the festering sinkhole that was House's apartment. Holly jolly, Wilson thought. House's leg was still bandaged up for the most part, the majority of his thigh covered in white gauze and medical tape. It was propped up on the coffee table for comfort, not display, though Wilson was having a difficult time keeping his eyes off it.

"Maybe," House ruminated, not removing his eyes from the television as he shoved more lo mein into his esophagus, "if you keep staring at it, it will miraculously regenerate."

Wilson flushed and shifted his gaze back to the television. "I was hoping to cut the leg off with my mind," Wilson said, shrugging his shoulders. "It'd land me some serious brownie points with Cuddy, for sure."

House launched a throw pillow across the couch, not shifting his gaze. Wilson was the only person who could poke him in the tender spots, but not make so much as a scratch. It was playful banter, and it was healing, to House. Introspectively, he wondered why he had avoided this 'friendship' thing for the first several years of his life.

As they finished the Chinese – and House finished the lo mein, much to Wilson's dismay – the 80s made an appearance on the program, beginning with Cyndi Lauper's disheartening voice blaring through House's speakers. "Christ," he exhaled, tossing an empty carton onto the coffee table. "I forgot how much I despised this woman."

"I forgot how much I despised the 80s," Wilson said, surprise evident in his voice.

House began to rouse, attempting to get himself off of the couch. "What are you doing?" Wilson asked. He received no answer, though House continued to struggle, pushing himself up from the couch with his good leg. "Hey," Wilson reasoned, putting both hands up as he rose to his own feet. "Tell me what you want, and I'll – "

"For God's sake, Mother Theresa, I'm still _mobile_," House spat, and the harshness was not lost on Wilson. The oncologist lowered himself back onto his side of the couch, slightly hurt by House's outburst.

_He doesn't mean it,_ he told himself, brushing pieces of fried rice from the front of his shirt. _He's upset, he's vulnerable, and he wants to do something for himself._

While he was at it, he might as well do something for Wilson, too.

"If you're getting another beer, make it two," Wilson called over his shoulder. House grumbled some sort of miserable response, and Wilson cracked a small smile before turning back to the television.

When he did, his mouth fell open. Eyes wide, he stared at the TV, unsure of how to react. There, in his 1987, skin-bleaching glory, was Michael Jackson, the King of Pop, smack dab in the center of House's television.

And there, smack dab in the center on _top _of the television, was a framed photograph of Stacy Warner.

Wilson's mouth fell open. The resemblance was uncanny.

The sound of laughter filled the living room before Wilson could even register the connection his mind had made. He could not breathe, and his stomach ached from the large capacity of fried products he had just consumed. "House!" he bellowed, doubling over in hysterics, holding his stomach in fear of vomiting.

The sound of crutches echoed on the hardwood floors. "What's with all the – "

House went silent as his gaze fell on the television. The beer cans hit the floor, one breaking open slightly and spraying a thin stream of foam across the floor. Wilson heard the sound of a body collapsing on the floor followed by sobs rushing from House's chest, sounding pained and animalistic in their deepness. "House?" Wilson asked, wiping tears from his eyes as concern took over. He leapt to his feet and ran around the back of the couch. "House!" he cried, falling to his knees next to his friend, whose face was screwed up in –

Wilson leant back on his feet. Not pain. No, not pain at all.

House was laughing. Laughing so hard that he was rolling on his own hardwood floors, covering himself in beer.

Wilson was laughing, too, leaning forward and bracing himself against the back of the couch. "You dated Michael Jackson," he breathed between howls, and this only pushed House further – tears were on his cheeks as he coughed and tried to summon air into his lungs.

The "Thriller" music video began to play from the television's speakers, and they continued to shriek. When they'd stopped enough to breathe sufficient oxygen, House picked up the beer that had been spraying all over him and stuck the broken seam into his mouth, draining the contents and smashing the remainder of the can against his forehead.

They lay on the floor after their fit, each man stuffed with take-out and liquor, devoid of energy after spending so much of it on expelling the hysteria from their body. "Merry Christmas, House," Wilson managed, staring up at the ceiling of the apartment.

House simply laughed again, the sound more pleasant than any Christmas bells Wilson had ever heard.


	5. Wednesday, November 16, 2005

**A/N: **Thanks for sticking around! Hope you all liked. Keep your eyes peeled for _Six._

* * *

_Wednesday, November 16, 2005_

Wilson pulled the door open to the restaurant and motioned for House to enter before him. House curtseyed sardonically, offering an eye-roll and a middle finger before limping over the doorjamb. The day had been long and emotionally taxing, so the pair agreed silently on _Cadenza's_, their favorite trashy restaurant, if only because it sounded like it belonged to an Italian hooker.

After a week of confusion, failed differential diagnoses, and frustration, House had finally discovered that a fire that had burnt down his patient's home when she was young had singed the ceiling tiles and the compound used on the drywall when the house was built in the 1980s, releasing asbestos into the air and poisoning her. She was the only one home at the time, so her parents didn't exhibit symptoms, and she'd had no idea that asbestos had been used in pro ducts in the 80s. Pericardial mesothelioma was a slow-growing death sentence, and a rare one at that. And Wilson was the one who got to break the news.

They sat at their usual table and ordered their typical sorrow-drowning bottle of wine, neither thinking it would be the only bottle that would end up in their custody that evening. The waitress returned promptly with the wine and two glasses, and promised to return to take their dinner orders in a few moments.

House pulled the bottle to his lips and took a long drink.

"Classy," Wilson mumbled.

"Cadenza won't mind," House said, raising his eyebrows. The stuffed a piece of bread into his mouth whole, noisily chewing it as Wilson pretended he was invisible.

It was always this way. And it always would be.

"The next patient I diagnose is getting blown to pieces," Wilson said simply, no humor or sarcasm intended as he shrugged slightly and folded his napkin, placing it on his lap. He stared at it wonderingly, pausing to consider what had just come out of his mouth, but before he could string a thought together, the man across from him was aspirating $40 Merlot, exploding into laughter once his lungs found the oxygen to do so with.

Wilson's cheeks grew hot with embarrassment as other patrons started to look over at the pair. "What?" he asked feebly, trying to shrink into a ball of mortification in his chair. He started chuckling awkwardly. "_What_?" he repeated.

This made House laugh even harder, rocking back and forth in his chair. "What do you mean, 'what?'" he asked incredulously mid-cackle, his voice several octaves higher as he tried to squeeze the words out. He threw his hands up, palms in the air, suggesting Wilson was being absolutely ridiculous. He tried to speak again but could not, instead pushing a hand to his forehead and shaking his head. He slapped the edge of the table repeatedly with his other hand. Wilson was flabbergasted at the outburst, caught completely off-guard by the fact that House was not only laughing, but laughing so hard that he wine was coming out of his nose.

Slowly but surely, Wilson started to laugh, solely because House was absolutely beside himself with hysterics across from him. A little girl at the table behind them had started laughing too, but every other customer at the restaurant stared at them, eyes drilling holes into their backs as they tried to control themselves.

But Wilson could not stop, and did not want to. House was now crying, his face red from exertion and lack of oxygen. The maître d' approached and looked to Wilson, whose face was stuffed into a napkin in an attempt to muffle the sounds of his shrieks. "Gentlemen, I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you to – "

House made eye contact with him and, upon realizing where the statement was headed, _screamed _with laughter, all recovery he had made since his initial outburst lost. Wilson nodded and tossed a crisp fifty dollar bill onto the table, pushing himself to a standing position and holding his rumbling stomach as he did so. House followed, bracing himself against the side of the table for a moment, then stumbling after him. He grabbed the bottle of wine on his way by.

They entered the brisk November air and immediately had to sit on the curb, untroubled by the cars whizzing by in front of them. They leant on each other and rode out the hilarity, tears streaming from the corners of their eyes. Passerby stopped and stared; those seated by the windows at _Cadenza's _staring, unamused and annoyed by the two men's naked joy.

The laughter eventually died down, House wiping his eyes with the back of his arm as he refilled his lungs with the air they so craved. His abdominal muscles ached from the tireless contracting they had just been subjected to. "Jesus Christ, James," House breathed, pinching the bridge of his nose, amusement still scribbled across his usually troubled features. He searched for more words but said nothing, shaking his head in disbelief at his friend of nearly thirteen years. The tension of the day had dissipated into the air like a sad whisper blown away by the wind.

Wilson rubbed his face with both hands, exhaling on a small laugh himself. "_What?_" he asked again, though this time he understood why his friend had laughed so wildly.

House chuckled again and pushed himself to his feet, offering a hand down to Wilson. Wilson accepted and rose, following House as they walked back to his car. He handed the bottle of Merlot to Wilson, who took a swig and handed it back.

House put the bottle to his lips, and the corners of Wilson's mouth quirked upward. "I wasn't kidding, you know," he said quietly, and wine sprayed from House's lips like aerosol, peals of laughter spreading like wildfire into the starlit night above them.


End file.
